I love your silences even when they cut me open.
And I'm always like that for you, spread wide open on a surgical table, putting the scalpel in your hand. And you slice and you carve and you call me almost reverently, between pauses, your masterpiece.
You fucked me silly and left me feeling bare like a butterfly pinned on a collector's wall.
Am I worth the view?
My bones turn mauve-blue beneath your fingertips, skin melting and moulding like molasses, making slots for your fingers only.
Am I enough to play pretend with?
And I'm always like that for you, spread wide open on a surgical table, putting the scalpel in your hand. And you slice and you carve and you call me almost reverently, between pauses, your masterpiece.
You fucked me silly and left me feeling bare like a butterfly pinned on a collector's wall.
Am I worth the view?
My bones turn mauve-blue beneath your fingertips, skin melting and moulding like molasses, making slots for your fingers only.
Am I enough to play pretend with?
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